


Under Mørkets Dækning

by sarah1849



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Hannibal is Hannibal, M/M, Sort of an AU, alana is a matchmaker, gaslighting is the game, hannibal is the name, not really tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:08:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22369234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarah1849/pseuds/sarah1849
Summary: Hi this isn't my first work but it has been a long time and I hope I have improved at least slightly haha. I have an idea where I want this to go for the ending, but the in between is all a blur, so it may just be a one-shot unless you guys have any ideas, whereas I am more than happy to keep this going. I used some lines from the show so those are not my own, and it's not canon, but moreso about how Will worked for Jack previously, no interference or knowledge of Hannibal, and decided to return to teaching full time on his own. If you guys want me to continue, I was thinking he'd go back to working for Jack, but with a twist: he and Hannibal would be dating, and there would be no patient therapist relationship, at least in a professional setting, and I'd love to see how that would play out. So please please shoot me some ideas if you want me to continue, I am more than happy to see what you have to say and hear your ideas, but if not, I'll probably leave it as is because I have absolutely no idea where I would want it to go from here lol. Anyways, hope you enjoy! P.S. Don't love the title but going with it cause I was too impatient about posting this
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	1. Velbekomme

Will sat at the table, one foot pushed out lazily, the other curved at the knee. He’s really nice and smart, you’ll love him, Alana had said and he had said of course he’ll love me. Psychologists love me. Look at me like some walking case study. I’m sure he can’t wait to dig his fucking fingers in. He lit a cigarette, brushing a strand of hair from his eyes, stuck against his damp skin as the summer heat clawed all around. Every year it came, and it was vengeful and stubborn and wet, the Chesapeake Bay and Atlantic donating their fair share of precipitation. Will didn’t know if you ever got used to the heat, or you simply trudged through the humidity, one day forgetting that places outside of damp, balmy Virginia existed, and all other regions existed in a state of muggy equilibrium, then you simply discontinued complaint for instead, a mutual, unspoken dissatisfaction. He thought again of his looming plans; Alana had insisted Will meet this man, despite his protests and general disinterest in regards to dating and socializing and virtually all other aspects of menial interaction. This was more a courtesy, or rather a deeply miscalculated avoidance tactic on his own part, and he and this man would spend an evening together, bored with the mundanity of their symbiotic existences, and they would part ways after a quiet dinner, Alana appeased, his partner off put with his sardonic, pessimistic view of the world and Will, thoroughly unsettled, but none the worse for wear. He would tell Alana there had been no spark, no immediate connection or some other phrase people pretending to find love might say, and she would concede and he would be safe from her matchmaking tendencies for another few months, where he could think of a better excuse as to why being single was entirely appropriate and not at all a distressing enough reason for her to her to play out her cupid fantasy. He hadn’t met the one, of course, and you couldn’t force romance with blind dates and cheap liquor, you found it when you weren’t looking, like some beautiful out of place thing, a wonderful iridescent shell on the beach and while seemingly extraordinary, entirely banal. Yes, it was like that he would tell her. He sighed, content, a small piece of ash falling to the floor before he managed to reach the tray, and he watched it fall and scatter across the wood before rubbing a boot across it, a small grey streak now lining the panel. Banjo perked slightly at the scuff, not used to any sound other than Wills slow breathing and the rustle of leaves outside for quite some time. Guinness, on the other hand, entirely unphased, took in a deep breath before exhaling loudly, a tiny grunt of disapproval escaping him before he lulled himself back to sleep.  
“Yeah, Guinness, I know. Hot as all get-out.” Will said, and Guinness only huffed again in his sleep.  
Will knew Alana came from a good place, and she chose his dates carefully, walking on the eggshell that was Will Graham's fragile temperament, but he truly despised shrinks, and he wondered idly if this was a date or an intervention. Knowing his friend, it was likely a combination; a smart man, she had said, smart enough to catch the cues, to pull him back from the brink of disaster that threatened him so often, a walking personal advisory system. He had assured her he was fine; that the darkness she saw was only a reflection of the past, and he did not cry out in the night, waking in sweat, his sheets clinging to his bare sides and wrapping around him, the only semblance of reality the incremental squeezing of his hands, his fingernails digging deep into his palms, and out, and in. His bed no longer swayed under him, rising and falling over the waves, the world around him just a watery mirage. When he woke, now, it was quiet, his bed still, toes wriggling under the sheets as he turned to his side and faded back into the darkness, and the world had been quiet for quite some time. He only taught now, and he distanced himself from Jack Crawford, an occasional consult, but he would not come to the crime scenes anymore; did not feel the crunch of bone, a knife giving way through skin, tough and strong under metal, hot, thick blood against his skin in the night. No, he did not go to that place except in his dreams, and even then, it was all so distant, and he merely observed, a third party to his own thoughts, watching until he shut the door to his dreams and the warm light of the morning filled his eyes.  
“Come on, Banjo,” Will said, and he stood, stamping out his cigarette in the ashtray as Banjo got to all fours, tail wagging behind him. Guinness opened one eye and Will looked at him, crossing his arms, “come if you want, lazy bastard.”

Will sat on the bench to the side of his porch, another cigarette perched lazily in his fingers, and he watched Banjo sniff, run and repeat, occasionally marking something. He sniffed some bushes far off in the yard before he stilled, his ears perked and his tail suddenly static, and Will got to his feet, his own body tensing under him, and it was only a moment before he heard gravel crunching under tire, the slow whir of an engine coming closer with every passing second, and Will cursed himself, urging his own muscles to work, praying to God that his cigarette would make it to his mouth. It seemed a long time before his lips closed around the filter and he pulled, slow and deep, hand still hovering above his face as he exhaled, and through his smoke he saw the car. A low, black Bentley as elegant as the day is long, his smoke clearing around his own eyes as a small wind carried it away, floating along the breeze. The car turned the corner at the end of his driveway, and Will was still staring as it parked, no longer masked by cigarette fumes, the drivers side door opening quietly. He only remembered his own feet when the door closed; such a familiar sound, yet so uncharacteristically loud in his ears, the sound still echoing through the air like the vibrations of an elastic snapped, and then he saw him. Hannibal Lecter wore a light blue button down accompanied by a caramel tie with powder blue fleur de lis embroiderment, his pants with a large crease in the middle, themselves an own variation of caramel. Will traveled down, staring now at his simple brown dress shoe, straight bar laced, though undoubtedly some fine Italian leather. His own features were similarly distinct, Will noted, sharp and high and as sculpted as Michelangelo's own King David, but his skin was lively and olive, a slight shine to his cheeks. His nose was thin, coming down into a shallow cleft before his lips which curved deep and round, his top lip slightly more prominent and stretched a bit longer than the bottom. His chin was round, but the sides of his jaw leading up to his ears were straight and distinct. Will fought the urge to tell him he wasn’t buying what they were selling, and quickly call Banjo in before shutting the door and locking it, and he paired this thought with the likely cons of breaking into a fit of laughter, bordering on hysterical, although, he thought that this, on the other hand, may be able to ruin the night before it even began, and he moved it back to Option A.  
“Good evening.” Hannibal said, and Will heard him now instead of just saw him, and then Hannibal was real again, no longer a motionless apparition, and Will felt himself fade, his own existence now largely ambiguous, a tidal wave of uncertainty rushing through him so fast he thought he may actually sway. He thought he saw the accent even before he heard it, and in the same respect, he could not place it.  
“H-hello,” Will muttered, and he cursed then, shaking his hand and dropping the cigarette which had at some point burnt down uncomfortably close to his knuckle. He stamped it out on the porch quickly and deciding first impressions were probably over for both of them, pulled another one from the pack in his shirt pocket, but only held it for a moment.  
“Are you William Graham?”  
“Yeah that’s me, but it’s just Will. William’s my dads name.”  
“I’m Hannibal Lecter.” Will smiled and put his cigarette in his mouth, covering it with one hand to hide it from a fresh gust of wind as he lit it.  
“Nice car.” Was all he could say.  
“Thank you.” Hannibal replied, and Will could have sworn he smiled a little too. Banjo was still tentative in the back of the yard, not taking well to strangers always, and Will presumed Guinness was still sleeping sound on his old bed, going deaf and even more apathetic with age. Will laughed a little again, a nervous release of air, and he pulled his cigarette from his mouth before walking round to the porch steps, stopping just short of the concrete slab that led into the yard. He opened his mouth to speak, and thinking better of it, closed his mouth, running a hand quickly through his hair, fingers getting caught in a rogue curl before he dropped it again. He saw then that Hannibal had brought a bottle of wine, held close to his chest, the bottle a deep, blood red, and he couldn’t help but laugh again.  
“Maybe we should go inside,” Will said, and he found himself overcome with unease; some uncomfortable pit forming at the base of his stomach. He took one last glance at the sun, just dipping under the edge of the horizon and the dark browns of the trees, and he thought about his dad before turning into the house, soft whistle falling from his mouth, so quiet he wasn’t sure if Banjo would here, but he came running.

Will poured himself another glass of whiskey, hand lingering for a moment on the neck of the bottle before he turned to Hannibal.  
“Would you like me to open that bottle of wine?” A small gesture, all he could manage. Hannibal nodded, infinitesimally, accepting the olive branch. Will went over to the bottle and looked more closely at Hannibal now, the cork of the bottle popping off in his ears like a dream; quiet, distant. Will mused he looked out of place sitting here at his kitchen table, ash tray to his right, soft, satin blue shirt sleeves rubbing ever so slowly across the scratched grain of his old wood table. He poured Hannibal a glass, sitting to his left and reached for a cigarette.  
“You seem preoccupied.” Hannibal said, wafting his wine glass under his nose. Will watched the tendrils of smoke leave his mouth, moving towards the window and dissipating slowly through the screen.  
“I don’t...dinner date often.”  
“Is that what this is, a ‘dinner-date’?”  
“A play-date.” Will mumbled, “fucking Alana, what’d she say to you, anyways? She’s always doing this, thinks I need someone in my life. Wants me to be at ease.” Wills smoke rose like a foggy glass between them and he saw an image of Hannibal now through the fog. His face was flat, but there was a glimmer that faded with the smoke, carried away with a gust of wind.  
“Hmm, I thought this was a dinner date. Are you uneasy?”  
“Alana thinks I am. Thinks I’m fucking unstable.”  
“And are you? Unstable?”  
“You’re fucking psychoanalyzing me, you prick.” Will said, and he laughed, leaning back in his chair, “do I have to pay for this session, Dr. Lecter?” he asked, and Hannibal smiled, lips tight, shaking his head lightly.  
“I apologize. Sometimes I find it hard to seperate myself from my work.”  
“Yeah, I get that. You normally go on dates with people in the same department?”  
“Hmm, what do you mean? I thought you taught at the BSU?”  
“Yeah, but we both get into peoples heads, now don’t we?” He joked, and before Hannibal could answer, he continued, “I used to be a special investigator with Jack Crawford, but I’m taking some time off from all that, a little too much getting into other peoples heads there. You know Jack?” Hannibal sipped his wine, smiling into the glass.  
“Yes, Uncle Jack. He has consulted me on a few cases. He told me about your work with him on quite a few occasions.”  
“Oh, I’m sure he had a fuck of a lot to say since I keep dodging his calls.”  
“Hm, he didn’t mention it.” Hannibal said, and then they both laughed, long and hard, quieting just long enough to breathe and laugh again.  
“Fuck it, hand me the wine,” Will said, putting out his cigarette, and Hannibal complied, pouring the wine into Wills now empty glass.  
“You don’t like wine?”  
“Think it tastes a bit like cat piss, if we’re being honest. I’m a brown liquor sort of guy, but I’ll drink it tonight. Think it’ll pair nice with the chicken, though I’m not much of a cook.” He brought the wine up slowly, Hannibal watching him from across the table as he tilted the glass back tentatively and then swallowed, “not bad,” he conceded, and took another sip. He was bolder now that the whiskey had settled, and he had stopped fidgeting, his knee no longer threatening to knock into the table, and he could feel Hannibal's eyes on him as he stretched leisurely, arching his back against the chair, but he only relaxed and folded his hands in front of him, “Alana told me you like to cook, is that true? Says you’ve thrown a few dinner parties with people from the bureau.” Hannibal stirred briefly, but then he was cold again, still as a statue and Will wondered if he left him here, would the world move around him, continuing to change and grow, and Hannibal would stay, fixed and immobile, collecting dust but never changing?  
“I do cook. I was a surgeon before I became a psychologist, and I transferred my passion for anatomy into the culinary arts. Now I fix minds instead of bodies.”  
“Alana never mentioned that. Why the sudden change? Surgeons are practical, I mean, I can appreciate someone who can truly fix something, set a bone, make a person whole again. Those shrinks though? I’ve never been too great at explaining my own emotions, and it’s hard to be therapized when you know all the tricks.” Will said, and it was jest, though he truly meant it.  
“I killed someone,” Hannibal replied, and Will set his glass down, feeling the familiar pang of death, coming in all around him, resting heavy and hard and sure on his shoulders, “or, more accurately, I couldn’t save them, but it felt like killing them.”  
“Surely that happens to all surgeons from time to time.”  
“It was one time too many, and no one has died as a result of my therapy.”  
“Touche.”  
“You know, Will, therapy only works when we have a genuine desire to know ourselves as we are, not as we would like to be. May I be honest?”  
“Haven’t we been being honest?” Will asked, and he raised his eyebrow, leaning forward and placing his hand under his chin. He thought that honesty in a lot of senses was only a reflection of what we wanted someone to hear, and to truly know someone and what drives them, to see them at their worst, was knowledge not many people had; to understand and to be understood, that was rare.  
“I think you don’t really want to know yourself.” They looked at each other for a long moment until Will could only see hazel and bronze, overflowing into the whites of Hannibal's eyes, streaking down and around until there were no more edges, “I want to let you see me, Will. I think you desire transparency, though you don’t understand the cost.”  
“Are you therapizing me, Dr. Lecter?”  
“Observing. Observing is what we do and I can’t shut mine off anymore than you can shut yours off.”  
“Hm.” Will replied, and he stood, moving to the stove to stick a fork into the boiling potatoes. Satisfied, he drained the water, steam coming up and around him making his skin damp and warm, and he thought that he could finally see Hannibal a bit clearer now, through that stony facade, no longer looking at him through the foggy glass, and now, they had finally come face to face, “I hope you like simple. Knowing you throw such extravagant dinner parties, I should have come to your place.” He plopped some butter into the pot when he had settled it back on the stove, and walked to the fridge to get some milk, Banjo and Guinness now both on his heels. They followed him from the fridge back to the potatoes and sat when he started to mash them, tails swishing across the floor.  
“You will be formally invited next time.”  
“I don’t do...people very well. You could invite me, but I’m not sure I’d come.” Will finished and wiped his hands across his pants, shooing the dogs away and setting the pot to low heat, “almost done, just gotta wait for the chicken.”  
“I’m in no rush.” Hannibal replied, and Will wasn’t sure which part he was referring to.  
When will finished his wine, he poured Hannibal a whiskey on the rocks and placed it in front of him.  
“Your turn.”  
“You think I don’t drink whiskey?”  
“I think you’re a wine guy who’s a little rough around the edges, and far too uptight,” Will gave him a small smile, took one long sip of his own drink, and reached out to Hannibal, hands resting lightly on his tie before tugging it, “and you dress weird. What the fuck are these patterns?” He loosened the tie from Hannibal's neck, pulling it down far enough to reach the top button of his shirt so he could undo it. He placed both hands on Hannibal's chest, smoothing the fabric down, “much better. I was starting to get convinced you always looked pristine, butttt I think I see a wrinkle on your shirt.” A piece of hair had fallen from Hannibal’s gelled head, curving softly around his cheek and he looked at Will above him, his eyes hazy with liquor and the rough stubble that cut across his cheeks and down his chin.  
“Hm, what would you suggest I wear? Flannel and jeans?”  
“Hey now, I didn’t say to take your fashion advice from me, maybe just not GQ magazine.” Will chuckled, and the moment dragged on uncomfortably long for him, his skin growing itchy and hot beneath his shirt, “you said you want me to see you, but all I see is the role you play, and you’ve done a fine job at playing your part, but who will I see when the curtain drops, and there is no audience?” The oven bell dinged then and Will jumped a little, dropping his hands to his side and hurrying over to the chicken he had suddenly forgotten.

The sun had set now, and Will and Hannibal sat on the porch, Hannibal resting on the steps while Will stood, leaning on the side of the house, cigarette resting between his lips. They had talked mostly of work, quick formalities throughout dinner. There had been something lying quietly under their words; resting, waiting to rear its ugly head, but Will did not feel that veiled edge now; no cryptic phrases. He felt as though, under the stars, all things were clear; they could not lie in the dark and the silence, whiskey warming their insides.  
“Where are you from?” Will asked, pulling his cigarette from his lips.  
“Lithuania, a town called Šiauliai, just east of Voveriškiai. Not a small town, but not fairly large,” Hannibal said faintly, as though lost in some memory, distant and unknown to Will. “My parents died when I was young, and my sister and I moved in with our Aunt. A strict woman, but fickle and coquettish nonetheless. She fell for a marine and moved us to the states around my 17th birthday,” Will took a drag, feeling deeply that Hannibal had shared something profound and tragic with what little he said; overcome with sorrow.  
“Tell me about yourself,” Hannibal said, standing and joining Will against the house. It wasn’t a suggestion, Will knew, but he could think only of Hannibal in Lithuania now, young, orphaned, and then of the Hannibal next to him in this very moment, so close, arms almost touching, watching him over the blue hues of the night sky, and he didn’t dare look towards him, eyes set on some fixed point in the distance, fingers shaking so faintly on his cigarette. He flicked his cigarette over the porch rail in fear he might drop it, and not knowing how long he had been lost in thought, he sighed, as though no time had passed him by.  
“My dad was a hard man. I don’t know if that's how he was, or if he lost all softness when he lost my mom. She died in a car accident when I was two. I have something of her, an image, small and unclear, maybe not even a memory. But besides that, my dad liked to drink and fish, he gave me an appreciation of both. He died when I was 25, heart attack,” Will said, and he kept his face straight, like he had told this story many times before, rote and detached as if he had not lived it himself, but instead heard it offhand somewhere, by someone who had actually felt it and understood what the words meant. Yet, all the while feeling as though he was living some sort of lie, he felt water washing over his knees, his dad smiling at him over his shoulder, silent, throwing a reel out into the water, so clear in his own mind that he swore if Hannibal looked into his eyes, he would see this all; a distant memory replaying over the pale blue of his eyes. Will took the last sip of his whiskey, and sighed lighting another cigarette, forgetting all about his dad and the Virginian summer. The water washed back out, and he was again on his porch, Hannibal to his left, warm, summer light faded, replaced with the twinkle of the night sky.  
“So, you were a special investigator? Never an FBI agent?”  
“Uh, no, strict-screening procedures. And I did the same work without the title. How long have you been a psychologist?”  
“Ah, almost fifteen years now.”  
“Long time.”  
“Such is life.”  
“How very American of you.” Hannibal laughed, his head coming down, his hair, now mostly free of gel, falling around his face, and he was hidden again.  
“You know Will, Uncle Jack speaks very highly of you, but I think he sees you as a fragile little teacup.” Will pulled on his cigarette and smiled against the moon.  
“Ah, yes. The finest China, used only for special guests. And you, Hannibal, how do you see me?”  
“The mongoose I want under the house when the snake slithers by.” Hannibal said and Will hummed in appreciation. He realized then that the night had calmed, quiet save for the crickets chirping and the deep, fast croak of the tree frogs, and he and Hannibal had begun to dance again, tip-toeing around each other, their own lashes coming down sharp and smooth.  
“I’m getting the assumption you know a lot more about me than you let on, Dr. Lecter.”  
“Why’d you stop working with Jack?”  
“And why’d I know that question was coming? You just can’t help but psychoanalyze me, can you? I knew Alana must’ve mentioned it, she can’t help herself, but I wasn’t sure how much she had told you...perhaps she wanted to warn you about my delicate mental state before sending you out into the neurotic Wild-West that is Will Graham's psyche. Is this a date, or you just want some fucking reference notes?” Will spat, and he was angrier than he should be, but God, if he could just forget, truly forget without the constant nagging reminder, some horrible itch right beneath the skin that pushed him further from all things sensible and real. He could feel his fingernails pushing deep against the skin of his palm, and he couldn’t find it in him to let go; all the careful consideration and flowery words just parading around like some attempt at civility, leaving an acrid taste in his mouth, “are you even asking me or do you just want confirmation?”  
“Alana told me what happened, Will, I only wished to hear your own side of it. The psychoanalyzing? Habit, I suppose.” Hannibal reached for him, calling out in the night and he was so far from Will now, so distant and vague, and Will reached back, if only to ground himself, pull him far from the wateriness and onto solid, sure ground. Hannibal gripped his arm and Will waded through the muddiness and for a moment, as Hannibal came into view, he saw something even more vicious and cruel in the wake, and then it was quiet again, “you don’t need therapy Will, you need a way out of dark places when Jack sends you there.” Hannibal turned to Will now, and he was clouded by darkness, the bones and curves of his face only accentuated more by the dim glow of his cigarette. He looked absolutely ethereal; some sneaking creature in the night, shadows dipping in and out of concavities, the dark threatening to pool out and all around him, and the more Hannibal looked, the more Will dissolved into the nothingness of the night, becoming one with the blackness around him.  
“Last time he sent me to a dark place I brought something back.” Will grimaced, and the dark cleared, “hell of a first date, huh?” Will closed his eyes and laughed, some mirthless thing, rubbing a hand across his eyebrows. He opened them, and he could only see Hannibal's shirt collar, bare skin peeking out from between the flaps, small tuft of hair poking above the top button.  
“Is that what we’re calling it now?”  
“All this talk about my past makes me feel like I’m spilling.”  
“I would apologize for my analytical ambush, but I know I will soon be apologizing again, and you’ll tire of that eventually, so I have to consider using apologies sparingly.”  
“That’s the most honest you’ve been all night, Dr. Lecter. Fuck, I feel like I’ve dragged you into my world.”  
“I got here on my own, but I appreciate the company.” Hannibal put a finger under Wills chin, tilting his head up to look at him, “you are not defined by your maddest edges, Will.”  
“I can’t seem to define you at all.” Hannibal smiled, and he kissed Will then, taking both his cheeks into his hands, and Will stiffened for a moment before relaxing into him. Though he could not ascertain Hannibal's truth, he could be sure of his hands, rough against his cheeks, could understand the heat of his body, and he forgot all the things he did not know, pushing them aside for what he did. They kissed, hard and long, pulling apart breathless, foreheads resting together, and they stayed like that for awhile before anyone spoke.  
“I wouldn’t blame you if you ran for the hills.” Will finally said, and Hannibal kissed him again, soft and sweet, all urgency lost.  
“I’m not running.”


	2. Chiaroscuro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I wasn't gonna continue but I'm having a good time writing this, though it took me a while to write and edit. This chapter is not very Hannibal/Will heavy, so I guess you could say it's a slow burn, but the next chapter should be almost entirely just them, in the very least, most of it will, I'm still sorting out where I wanna go from here. This chapter harps on Wills decline, and also gives a little insight into his relationship with Alana.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, for reference, since I didn't think I was gonna keep writing, Banjo is literally Winston, at least in the sense of looks, just a different name, cause y'know, diversity, and Guinness is a grumpy, nine year-old German shepherd. Okay, hope you like it!

Will didn't know when he had forwent his original plan to discard Hannibal as quick as he came, but when he fell to sleep that night, he dreamt of a river washed red with blood, and a beautiful stag watching him from the bank, antlers gleaming in the sun before he went under, water coming in all around, and even then he saw it, shimmery through the scarlet film. He reached for it, and opened his mouth to breathe, and then he woke, gasping and sweating, the light of the morning sun filtering through the curtains, streaked orange and red against the sky. He fell back, wiping a hand across his forehead, breathing heavily in the quiet of his room before turning to the clock on his nightstand. It was still early, just nearing six, and he sighed, throwing the comforter back, watching the trees through the large bay window in the living room, golden in the morning sun. He had a class at eight, though his schedule had calmed in the midst of summer, only bringing him to Quantico a few times a week. He pulled himself from his bed, making a pot of coffee, and when he sipped it, it was metallic and thick and he cursed, wiping it from his mouth, a bright red sheen left from his index finger to his wrist. He shook his head, closing his eyes and counted, slowly and hopefully, to ten, a vain affirmation, so frequently and notably ineffective, but when he opened his eyes again, all he saw was the light brown shine of coffee, one droplet running down his hand onto the floor. He dumped the cup into the sink and then brought the dogs outside, lighting a cigarette and watching the bright colors of the sunrise fade and dissolve into the cerulean of early morning. It was quiet for some time and he had been watching a house wren peck at the ground when his phone rang, the bird, spooked, disappeared into the trees.  
“Will Graham.” He said when he answered, his voice still thick and hoarse with sleep.  
“Will Lecter, I should say.”  
“Ah, Alana, just the person I wanted to talk to.”  
“I know, I know, you wanted to thank me for setting you up with such a handsome, cordial, and competent man. Really, Will, no need to thank me.” Alana laughed and Will took a long drag, moving to sit on the porch bench.  
“Not exactly the words I would have chosen, I think a simple ‘what the fuck?’ may have sufficed.”  
“What? I mean, I know he’s not exactly your type, but-”  
“But? ‘Not really my type’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. You couldn’t have picked two more unalike people. I mean, God, I can already see this thing going down in smoke.”  
“It couldn’t have been that bad.”  
“Worse.” Will replied, and he rubbed his forehead, smoothing out lines of worry. “That man talks like he can’t tell a patient from a friend, and you know I fucking hate that.”  
“Will, not everything is some calculated personal attack against you. I know you think everything I do is to make your life harder, but I just care about you.”  
“I know that Alana, I do, but fuck! You had to go and tell him about Jack and I and I just...I can’t be some fucking project to him.”  
“He’s not like that.”  
“All psychologists are like that.”  
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing, Will.”  
“Jesus, Alana, don’t start that shit. Maybe I am fucking fragile, one small event away from shattering, God knows you think so, but your constant reminders don’t pull me any farther from disaster, and I can guarantee his sure as fuck won’t.” Will didn’t remember when he had gotten up and walked to the edge of his yard, across the flat fields, but he was there, and his house looked so small, and then it rocked and careened against the grass, some tiny boat on the sea, tumbling perilously against the waves, and he was calm, “I can see it all over your face when you look at me; like I’m a wounded animal you just wanna put down, take it out of its misery.”  
“Will,” Alana said, and it was barely a word, just some small, merciful release of air. He could see her on the other end, all different and unpleasant shades of commiseration, going down and around, filling the shallow etches of her face now turned up with worry, “Will, I’m sorry.”  
“I guess you dodged a bullet with me, huh?”  
“Will-”  
“It’s fine, Alana. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” Will hung up the phone, looking back at his house, now still and flat against the yard and he dropped his cigarette, bringing a boot down on it and twisting it out. He didn’t know when he had started to feel so unsure about Hannibal in the short time since their meeting, he only knew that when he woke he had noticed the distinct turn into delirium, a recognizable swath pulled tight all around like a thick blanket of doubt. Maybe it wasn’t Hannibal or his unrelenting objectiveness, so clinical and cold, and on his own he had started to become someone else, Hannibal just a convenient scapegoat for his untimely ambivalence. Perhaps he hadn’t felt like himself in awhile, just a guest in his own body, and when Hannibal looked at him, he saw all versions of Will, and instead of recoiling in the face of uncertainty, he coaxed it out, encouraging the plunge into disquietude. 

Will taught his class in a ceremonial haze, overloaded with newfound insight, but in this, at least, he was sure. He could teach facts and assume his role; knew who he was here, in this large room, all these nameless faces staring back, absorbing information or simply existing at the same time, and he was real again. He turned toward the class after clicking forward on the power point, and then he saw him. He was unsure whether he had been there all along, or had just come in, assuming his place against the back wall, dark blues and purples of his three-piece suit accentuated deeply against the off-white paint around him. Will thought again how still he looked, just another fixture on the wall; some beautiful, crude painting in an otherwise empty room, though for a moment he thought he could sense some amusement before it fleeted, lost again behind that stony veneer. He steadied himself, turning back to the screen, flipping hurriedly through slides. After some time, he decided to give up on pretenses altogether and he shut his laptop abruptly.  
“Alright class, that’s all for today. Remember your papers about criminal profiling in juvenile court are due next week. I’ll see you all then, have a good week. ” Will looked away and played with some papers on his desk, listening to the familiar sound of bags rustling and students chattering, the sound of their shoes on the linoleum as they left the room, getting quieter and quieter every second, and then he was alone with Hannibal, still staring at some meaningless black ink, reading the first sentence over and over. He spoke then, and his voice sounded so quiet, even to himself, “looking for some insight on juvenile maturity evaluation in the court, Dr. Lecter?” He turned, leaning against his own desk, arms crossed against his chest, eyes fixed on some indistinct spot on the floor. Hannibal had moved, noiselessly, now sat on the arm of a chair in the front row of the room. He smiled, flashing the smallest bit of teeth, and Will looked at him, observing the slight protrusion of his lateral incisor before they were tucked away again, hidden behind his lips.  
“What can I say, Mr. Graham, I always found theories of individual justice quite interesting.”  
“Hm, theories? You don’t think it’s a fact that we all operate on our own respective frameworks, and in turn require a large range of therapies?”  
“Everything is individual, Will.”  
“Well, anymore thoughts on forensic psychology in the juvenile justice system, or have I misinterpreted your visit?”  
“While I’m all for a discussion about the adjudicative competence of youth, I’m here on more personal matters.”  
“Must be pretty personal for you to make the trip all the way down to Quantico.”  
“It was on the way from my office, actually, but, yes, I was speaking to Jack Crawford.”  
“Oh, and you just found yourself in my lecture this morning? Though, it’s a pretty big building, I wouldn’t fault you for getting lost. I’m going to smoke a cigarette if you want me to show you the way out.” Hannibal laughed, standing and coming towards Will, and Will could smell his cologne now, warm and sweet against his skin, so different from the stale air he had breathed all morning and he forgot about Alana and his convictions, all seeming so far away now. He only thought of citrus and jasmine, cut with the spiciness of rosemary and fresh wood, so bittersweet all around him.  
“My being here is entirely intentional.” He heard Hannibal more than he saw him, the swish of his pant legs and the sharp click of his shoes as he came up next to Will, assuming the place beside him, both his hands on either side of the desk as he leaned back, “I wanted to invite you to dinner tomorrow.”  
“I told you you could invite me, but I wasn’t sure I’d come.”  
“I seem to recall you having said something like that about my dinner parties, yes, but it would only be you and I. I’ll cook for you.”  
“Hm, my cooking was that bad, then?”  
“No, not at all, but I think you’ll find I’m a much better cook than I am a therapist.”  
“I think I’d find far more things better than your therapy, Dr. Lecter.”  
“So, then, can I plan on having you for dinner? Say about six?” Will was quiet for a moment, analyzing the unforeseen cons of continuing on in this direction of equivocality, but despite the vast intricacies and complexities that surrounded his doubts, he was decidedly curious about the nature of their burgeoning relationship.  
“I’ll come, if only to enjoy our little game of cat and mouse.”  
“And who am I in that scenario?”  
“I’m not entirely sure yet.” Hannibal pushed off the desk, coming to stand in front of Will and he put one hand on his face, warm and rough against his palm. Will did not look at him, finding it harder it sober and in the clear light of day, staring instead at the blue paisley print of Hannibal’s tie and he wondered idly what he’d see in those hazel eyes, if they’d be as unreadable and vague as the rest of him, or if he’d only see himself staring back, reflected back against their watery surface, as unfamiliar as the man who looked at him.  
“I look forward to it.” Hannibal kissed him, chaste and gentle, their lips barely grazing before he pulled away again, hand still lingering for a moment on his cheek before they both jumped, someone clearing their throat from the far corner of the room pulling them from each other, bringing sense and absoluteness, no longer two people alone but two people observed.  
“Hello, Will. Hannibal.” Alana said and Will cursed, feeling embarrassingly juvenile, caught in flagrante delicto.  
“Jesus, Alana.”  
“Good morning, Dr. Bloom,” Hannibal nodded towards her, “well, I should be going. I’ll see you tomorrow, Will.”  
“I trust you can make your own way out, Dr. Lecter? Wouldn’t want you getting lost again, though the forensic anthropology class across the hall may benefit from your input.” Will replied, and Hannibal only smiled, walking out the door.  
“Well, I was coming to apologize for my thoroughly unappreciated ambush, but it seems you’ve come to terms.”  
“I wouldn’t say that. Morbid curiosity, maybe.” Will started packing his bags, tension palpable, some third party to his ill ease. He could feel Alana, so stern and cold, just teetering on the edge of smugness, and he stopped, looking in her direction for a moment, all outlined in blue and frost like some vengeful deity, so lovely and severe in her rouge dress. Her hair was curled around her face, bangs sweeping across her forehead and undulating down, so shockingly full of movement against the hardness of her face.  
“Well you could have relayed your curiosity before jumping down my throat.” Alana sighed, long and deep, features becoming animated again as she tempered, thawing like frost on grass under the sun, and Will relaxed. He thought for a moment about the facets and complications surrounding individual justice and then, the complexities of his own absolution given the circumstances, deciding humility and forgiveness were a far cry from Alana's overwhelming animosity.  
“I know.” Will said, and he itched for a cigarette or solitude, not caring or even betting on their concurrence, only wishing for the promised relief of either, “I’m sorry. I don’t know how I feel; about him, about myself or my work, and it all got so muddled together but I am sorry, I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I know you mean well.”  
“It’s fine, I know I can be a little...impulsive at times.” She said, and she bit the word out like it was sour, its very essence leaving a bitter taste in her mouth, so harsh and jagged across her tongue, and Will laughed, full and deep.  
“God, don’t hurt yourself.” Will said, and Alana laughed too and the room calmed, the pins and needles of agitation replaced with the loose flow of ease.  
“So, what did he want, anyways?”  
“He asked me to dinner tomorrow night at his place.”  
“And you said?”  
“Yes, against my better judgement.” He started packing again, throwing a loose sheet of paper into a folder before stuffing it into his bag.  
“Ah, yes, that morbid curiosity, again?” Will clicked a pen a few times before putting it in the front pocket of his shirt and pulling his bag over his shoulder.   
“You know me, just a glutton for punishment.” Will started walking towards the door, already fumbling around in his pocket for his cigarettes.  
“Mmhm, just professional curiosity, of course.” Alana replied, and she was teasing, but Will was already at the door, pushing a cigarette behind his ear, her words hollow and ignored as he rounded the corner.  
“Goodbye, Alana.” He called, and she said something else, though it was like a dream, his mind already wandering, blocking out her advances and suggestions, and then he was outside, warm, stuffy air hitting him hard and fast as he lit his cigarette. He stood outside for a while, just watching the comings and goings of students and faculty; the prosaic stream of banality, and then he became just another cog in the machine of life. They moved all around him and through him, wading through their mundanity until he could once again appreciate his own singular aloneness. The air around him was a thick blanket of humidity, a thin sheen of sweat already starting to precipitate on his skin, and he dropped his cigarette, spinning it under his boot before heading for his car. He unlocked his car and threw his bag onto the passenger seat, shedding his button down until he was in only a white shirt, clinging uncomfortably to his damp chest. He prayed for fall and rebirth in the wake of death; the inevitable renaissance of spring and the promise of new life, deciding summer was just an in-between, the dormant stage between beginnings and ends; the midlife of seasons, entirely necessary and wholly intolerable. He started to drive towards Wolftrap, thinking of Hannibal and the enigmatic relationship they had begun to form, their own words and actions only surface descriptions; thin slivers of truth. He wondered if relationships could form when you abandoned verity for arcanity or if they would simply continue in this direction of half truths, and he wondered as well if perhaps all relationships started under the pretense of ambiguity, soon to develop into a mutual, complete understanding of the other.   
He drove for awhile until the bleak grey of buildings and sidewalks were replaced with the bright green shroud of trees coming all above and around him like some verdant dome, and then he was pulling down his long driveway, out of the safety of trees and into the bright, open space of the flat fields. He parked his car and went inside for a second, only to set down his keys and bag before following the dogs out into the yard, resting comfortably on the bottom step of his porch, a small patch of shade from the overhang his only reprieve from the sun. He floated in and out of consciousness until the rustle of trees and sing songs of the birds faded, awareness occupying only a small portion of his thoughts and when he opened his eyes again it was dark. Will sat up, his breath heavy and loud in the now quiet space of his yard. He looked out and around, trees now looming overhead, stretching and pulling like long, spindly black figures against the sky and he stood, nearly knocking into a sleeping Guinness as he walked forward, who only groaned and shook before closing his eyes again and drifting back into peaceful sleep. Will checked his watch and found it was now a quarter past ten and he fumbled backwards and up his porch steps, pushing his front door open, some noiseless call to the dogs falling from his lips before he hurriedly shut the door, throwing on the kitchen light. He grabbed his cigarettes and pulled one out, his own fingers numb against the thin paper, and he cursed, each flick of the lighter lame and fruitless, his arms and hands some phantom limbs, useless and detached. The lighter finally flicked, and he pulled on his cigarette, knocking a chair out from the table with his foot before sitting and reaching for the whiskey he had left out the night before. He twisted the top with one thumb and it fell and scattered across the floor, skipping around before stopping just short of the front door, and he still heard it ringing in his ears when he took a long sip, not stopping until the reverberations dissolved once again into the telltale sounds of night. It had cooled now, but Will was sweating, droplets forming thick and large across his forehead before rolling down his cheeks and nose, sloping into the space between his bottom lip and chin, and all at once they fell, dripping onto the dark wood of the kitchen table. He wiped them away with his arm, leaving a long, wet streak and he watched the water diffuse and then snap back into itself. He stayed like that for a long time, smoking and drinking, only standing once to feed the dogs before falling back into the chair and in time, he slept, dreaming of dancing trees and in between them all, a shadow in the shape of a man, suspended on dust.

Will woke stiff and hot, face pressed flat against the kitchen table. He groaned, the light of morning like tiny daggers, bouncing off every surface and into his eyes. He stretched against the chair, twisting his head from side to side, cursing when he turned left, some horrible crick in his neck that formed at the base of his skull and traveled around and downwards to his spine. He cracked his eyes, scanning around his small living room and he decided everything was the same, save for the lone bottle cap, turned on its head, and a semicircle of ash on the table, some sacrilegious halo marking the space where he had slept. When he could, he stood and fed the dogs before letting them out, propping open the door with one of his boots. He forwent coffee for a shower, cold water streaming down his body, washing away sins and grime, the uncertainty of the present swirling over and down the drain. He showered for a long time just appreciating the symbolic cleansing of water before stepping out. He wrapped a towel around himself, fastening it low on his hips and started towards the door, stilling when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He stood for some insurmountable amount of time just staring at his reflection until he looked right through and past himself, some motionless stranger occupying the place opposite him.   
The rest of the morning and some of the midday continued on in this fashion, Will floating about. He felt transient, as though he were watching himself from some distance away, some intrusion of a life that was not his and did not belong to him. He was sitting at the table a while later, now wiped clean, when he heard Banjo bark from outside, first quiet and offhand before he could really place it, and then he was up and out the door, cigarette smoke trailing behind him. He opened his mouth to yell something and stopped. Banjo was in the middle of the yard, sniffing something large and white, a tiny spot of brown flashing between Banjos legs. Will paused and then took a drag before stamping it out and walking farther into the yard, only stopping to watch Guinness who was sitting a few feet away from Banjo, a disinterested and respectable distance away. He walked cautiously to Banjo who stopped, looking up at Will, all brown eyes and long, brindle fur, the fluff of his tail ruffling in the wind, exasperated by the quick sway of excitement. The other dog, Will could now see, stepped a few feet back, and Will stooped low, resting his knees on the grass, still damp from the morning air.  
“Hey,” he cooed, and the dog tilted his head. He was medium size and white save for the dirt along his backside with tall, pointy ears, one brown all the way, the other just coloring the backside, small tinges lining the front edge. The light brown of his right came down to the tip of his eye and stopped in the middle before swooping over and back up his ear. Will inched a little closer and the dog remained still, “c’mere, pretty.” Will called out to the dog, outstretching an arm, and it took a tentative step forward, smelling the tips of his fingers and down his palm. Will was still and watchful as the dog came to him, sniffing all around his clothes and over his legs, and he muttered some praise, bringing a careful hand to the dogs head. He, Will had observed, jumped a little and then relaxed into the touch, allowing slow, easy strokes.  
“Such a good boy,” Will murmured and he was smiling despite himself, forgetting all about his own misgivings, feeling somehow more real and full as the dog nuzzled against him, troubles fading in place of tangible problems he could ease; the misfortune of another like a hard, solid weight against his shoulders. Will looked him over: he had no tags and he was thin and gangly, the outline of his ribs and spine protruding out along his backside. He pet the dog for awhile and then stood up, slow and vigilant, walking backwards to the house to grab some food, calling to the dog, but he only stared back as Will disappeared inside. When he returned, the dog had fled, Banjo occupying the space where he had once been. Will sighed and called out, but only Banjo and Guinness appeared, eager for food and attention.  
That night, Will left food and water out on the porch, thinking about the dog all the way to Hannibal's house, avoiding existentialism for matters of the present. He stopped at a package store and picked up a bottle of red wine, some simple, but not wildly inexpensive, Cabernet Sauvignon. It lacked extravagance while maintaining some class and dignity, though it held the distinct promise of a hangover. He drove for sometime, verging on an hour, following the harrowing directions Alana had sent him. Hannibal's home was a residential mansion in Baltimore, an elongated square structure flanked with two sharp dormers on either side. It was composed almost entirely of yellow brick, with its windows, tall and thin, outlined in red clay and slightly arched at the top. The door was centered with a striking Palladian temple front not entirely synonymous with the Romanesque Revival, Annex style hybrid that composed the rest of the house, but relying just enough on the principals of symmetry and composition to remain congruous. Will parked along the street, stepping out of his car, taking a moment to observe. He felt so small and trivial, Hannibal's home some looming corporeal edifice of manor and grace. Materialism had never concerned him, but he came up the stone walkway feeling uncharacteristically inadequate in the name of temporality. He rapped against the door three times and then took a step back, watching the flickering patio light overhead, some moth swirling around it, clinging to light and warmth, the low buzz of electricity and the sound of his heartbeat thumping loud and deafening in his ears, and then, like a candle blown out, Hannibal opened the door, and the pounding ceased.  
“Will, glad you could make it.”


End file.
